No Greater Honour
by yassandra
Summary: Seven die so that twenty thousand can live.


A/N So it's time for Hurt/Comfort Bingo Round 7 to begin and I thought I'd open my account early this year (I only got the card last night). I saw this particular prompt and it made me think. In _The Earth Bull_ we see what happens when our three favourite idiots face the Minotaur, but what must have happened in previous years? How hard would it be to be one of those chosen as a tribute?

Well that's where this story comes from anyway. I hope you all enjoy it - let me know what you think.

This story been written for Round 7 of Bingo on the Hurt/Comfort LJ community, to incorporate the prompt 'sacrifice'.

* * *

 _"There is no greater honour than to give your life for your city… and your King." (King Minos - The Earth Bull)  
_

* * *

The heat in the courtyard is stifling; the stench of sweating bodies overpowering.

She hates it.

Every year it's the same. Rise before dawn, eat breakfast with the family and then make her way to the Palace to wait around in the packed courtyard, hemmed in on all sides by the bodies of her fellow adult citizens, growing steadily hotter and smellier as the sun rises higher in the sky, until the King finally bothers to grace everyone with his presence.

Gods! How much longer will this take? She has work to be getting on with and life doesn't just stop because this is the day when the tributes must be chosen.

As a child she had been fascinated by the ritual; had an unhealthy and morbid curiosity. She could clearly remember her parents talking about it in hushed but urgent whispers whenever they thought the children weren't listening; had snuck out of bed late at night to eavesdrop on their conversations. She was always aware of it, she supposes; always aware of the impending hand of doom hanging over all their heads; was aware of people disappearing, never to be spoken of again; of the sacrifice of the few for the good of the many. And when the old man from down the street disappeared the day after the ritual of the stones she had known better than to ask questions; had known that his actions would please Poseidon and keep them all safe.

As an adult she has learned not to think about it; to put the yearly ritual from her mind as much as possible. So it always sneaks up on her somehow. One day she will be going about her daily business and, bam, it will hit her: tomorrow is the day when the tributes will be chosen.

Standing in the courtyard she wonders idly: is this it? Is this the year when I must face my own end? She looks around at the people crushing against her, the heat from their bodies and from the bright sun (now directly overhead – King Minos likes to make an entrance but she doesn't think he's ever kept everyone waiting quite this long before, she thinks sourly) making her unbearably hot. She rubs uncomfortably at her own neck and shoulders.

Which of her companions in this annual ritual will be selected? Will it be the stooped old woman, barely able to walk anymore? The gangly boy nervously facing his first selection ceremony, only recently grown to manhood? The carpenter with the work-scarred hands? The newlywed wife, heavy with child and clinging to her husband's hand?

The brazen blaring of horns and pounding of drums greets the King's arrival; the Queen, cold and regally elegant as ever, at his right shoulder. King Minos surveys the gathered people with satisfaction. There are other sites around the city where the people will be gathered to draw lots, organised by district – you could not get twenty thousand people into this courtyard after all and if everyone had to draw a lot in the same place the ritual would take days and not mere hours. For the people of her district the gathering place has always been the Palace – an honour that she would happily forego. King Minos always looks far too pleased with himself and with the proceedings for her tastes.

The anxiety in the courtyard is palpable as the King raises his right hand. The square falls silent as the horns and drums stop; every ear turned to hear His Majesty's words.

"On this day, every adult citizen of Atlantis must draw lots," he intones. "If you draw a white stone, then Poseidon has spared you. If you draw a black stone, then it is your duty to offer yourself as a sacrifice to the Minotaur. You families should be proud… for your sacrifice will appease the Gods and protect all that live in our great city."

She has heard the words too many times before; has heard them every year since she became an adult; could recite them by heart. It strikes her as a little unfair somehow, that the royal family are exempted from drawing lots themselves; there is never any risk that the King or Queen (or even the Princess and the Lord Heptarian) will be chosen as a tribute. She understands that the natural order must be maintained and that the city needs its ruler, yet it is still hard to stomach.

The drums begin to pound their rhythm once more as the King turns and takes the Queen's hand, a curiously formal gesture, stepping back into the Palace.

She knows that he will go to the throne room now, to sit on his gilded throne and await the steady stream of citizens come to draw lots before him. She shifts uneasily where she stands, the ritual is about to begin.

* * *

The throne room is at least a little cooler than the courtyard had been but the wait in line still somehow seems interminable to her. Everywhere there are guards, ensuring that none of the people try to run away in a last minute panic either before drawing a lot or (Gods forbid!) after drawing a black stone. At the head of the room the King and Queen sit on their adjoining thrones on a raised dais. Queen Pasiphae looks as impassive as ever (is the woman carved of stone, she wonders irreverently, or is she flesh and blood? Because if she is she certainly never shows it). King Minos has half slumped in his seat. He looks almost bored (he can afford to be, she thinks half bitterly – he will never have to undergo this ritual after all; will never know the bone deep fear that this year it might be her turn to face the Minotaur).

She stands in the line with her nerves growing with every passing minute. Has she done enough to please the Gods this year, she wonders anxiously. There was that incident with the baker's wife but that was a mistake more than anything and anyway it was months ago. Surely the Gods won't hold it against her. She tries to appease them wherever possible; makes all the proper prayers and offerings; keeps all the festivals. There are two little children at home who need her and her husband wouldn't have a clue how to run the house. Surely the Gods won't be so cruel as to take her away from her family? From the people who need her?

Yet the Gods need no reasons for their cruelty. She has been brought up to believe this firmly. A thought strikes her – what if her husband draws a black stone? She cannot raise two children with no support and no income. Fear rises in her throat, making her stomach churn. There are still four people ahead of her in the line; still four chances for a black stone to be drawn before she faces the ordeal herself. Logically she knows that the chances of drawing a black stone are slim. There are only seven black stones among the thousands of white after all and they are distributed randomly among the selection places throughout the city. It doesn't make it any easier though; doesn't make the fear any less.

The line draws inexorably closer. Now there is only one more person ahead of her. He is a stocky young man, his fear making him perspire profusely – the faint, acrid smell of sweat wafting back to her nostrils and making her stomach turn even more. He steps forwards nervously, almost tripping over his own feet as he does, under the watchful and steady gaze of the Captain of the Palace Guard, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, daring anyone to try to run. The young man squeezes his eyes tightly shut as though he cannot bear to look, places his hand into the mouth of the bull and withdraws a stone, turning his hand over and opening the fingers before he has even opened his eyes – not quite daring to look at the stone he has drawn. The stone is white and a look of relief passes over the young man's face; a euphoria that she knows only too well from previous years.

Finally, it is her turn. Swallowing down the fear and bile that rises in her throat, she steps forwards with her back straight and places her own hand into the mouth of the bull. The stones feel cool and smooth beneath her hand and she carefully selects one. Now at the last moment a feeling of peace sweeps over her. The Gods have heard her prayers she is sure. She smiles faintly as she turns her hand over and opens the fingers, certain that the stone she has selected is a white one.

It is black.

* * *

She doesn't get much sleep that night. It's only to be expected she supposes. After all it's not every night that a woman goes to bed knowing that she will die the next day. In the darkness she mutters a quick prayer that it will be a quick death.

There is never any suggestion that she should flee the city. The city will be closely guarded tonight and the curfew rigidly enforced. The houses of the tributes are guarded more closely than anywhere else so that those chosen to face the Minotaur tomorrow will not get the chance to surrender to their fear and try to escape their fate. She knows without being told that the hunting lions will be released at the first hint of someone breaking curfew.

Besides, she cannot bring dishonour to her family be trying to get away. Her husband sells fish in the agora and she knows that no-one would ever buy from him again if she were to try to escape the fate that has been determined for her. Her children would grow up scorned and ridiculed for their mother's behaviour. She cannot do that to them; wants her children to grow knowing that she loved them and that she was willing to sacrifice everything to make sure they are safe and happy.

Still, accepting her fate does not make sleep come any easier and she lies awake in the darkness thinking of all the things she will miss – her son growing to manhood and becoming a citizen; her daughter, barely more than a babe in arms, becoming a beautiful young woman – a wife and mother. Beside her, her husband snores; his sleep apparently undisturbed by the fact that he must lose his wife in the morning. She both envies and resents him right at this moment.

In the darkness she rolls to look at him, peering at his well-known features in the dim light. Theirs was never a love match. Her father arranged for her to marry Aktis when she was just fifteen and the marriage has at least brought her comfort and security even if it has never been especially passionate. Aktis is a good man and has provided a good home. She is in no doubt that he will raise her children dutifully. She fully expects him to find a new wife before long who will be a mother to both her children and any that might follow in the future from the new wife. It is hard though – knowing that she will never see her children grow up; knowing that one day soon they will call another woman mother.

Despite the sleepless night, morning comes all too quickly. In the dim light of dawn, she rises and sets the house in order. She lays out clothes for her husband and children and goes to fetch water from one of the many public wells dotted throughout the city. The sun has not yet risen as she prepares a cold breakfast for her family, knowing that this is the last meal she will ever make for them and wanting it to be as good as she can make it. She has no appetite herself – something else which is to be expected, she supposes.

Finally, when all is prepared for the day, she dresses herself in her best dress, picks up the fateful black stone and begins to walk to the Palace alone. The sun is just rising and the day promises to be a beautiful one. Part of her is glad that her family is still asleep; she would not want her children to have to say a final goodbye (because she cannot even begin to believe that she will come out of this alive).

It strikes her, as she walks, that this is the last time she will see her home; will see the city she was born in and has lived her whole life in. She has never left Atlantis – has never wanted to. Perhaps that thought should make her sad and yet it does not.

She has heard stories in the past (whispered rumours that are rarely spoke out loud) of tributes who have had to be dragged screaming from their homes on the final morning when they were supposed to make their way to the Palace for their ritual purification. At least she has spared her family that sight; at least she is leaving her city and her home with some dignity intact.

Head held high, she makes her way to the door of the Palace and shows the black stone to gain admittance. She is directed to a room where two of the other tributes are already waiting and waits with them for the rest of the tiny, doomed group to arrive.

They are shown to the council chamber – a room that most of the citizens of the city will never see – and kneel before the King and Queen, placing their stones onto a waiting dish and hearing the words that the King offers to them. It is all very well for King Minos to tell them that there is no greater honour than to die for their city and their King, she thinks, but she hasn't seen _him_ volunteering for the task.

Then they are whisked away to separate chambers to be disrobed by waiting servants, washed and purified and redressed for their journey to the labyrinth. And honour guard forms up around them, led by the Captain of the Palace guard and accompanied by slowly beating drums to take them the rest of the way (while ensuring that no-one escapes of course). Her nerves begin to grow again as they make the long walk. Soon she will have to make her peace with the Gods; soon she will be facing the worst nightmare of every citizen of Atlantis. She hopes her children will be proud.

* * *

The labyrinth is cool and dark after the morning heat that accompanied them on their walk. The passageways twist and turn confusingly and soon she has lost all sense of direction. Within the labyrinth fear has soon caught hold of the group and they have all scattered, running hither and thither until each one has no idea where any of the others are.

In the distance she hears screaming and knows that one of the others has been caught by the Minotaur. She pushes onwards, desperately seeking the way out in spite of her earlier resolution to submit to her fate without a fight and make her family proud. Terror twists her guts into knots and she feels her breath coming sharply as her panic rises.

Darkness surrounds her. The group were given a couple of torches but these have long since disappeared with the male tributes who carried them. She finds herself in a dark cavern. All is still and silent. Then she hears it. From behind her comes the heavy footfall and the growling. She wants to scream but terror closes her throat. She stands, frozen; unable to move a muscle in her fear. The breath comes hot on the back of her neck and she finds herself closing her eyes as tears rise unbidden to them and thoughts of the family she leaves behind consume her.

It is time.


End file.
